Reunion in an Empty Flat
by CuttleMeFish
Summary: Consulting Detective Arthur Kirkland faked his death for three years. Doctor Alfred F. Jones has been mourning him since. When Arthur suddenly returns, though, he comes with a proposition Alfred can't seem to refuse. Sherlock Holmes/AreYouHappy? Triple AU


**Author Note: **You do not need to have read _Are You Happy? _to enjoy this piece, though you might want to at some point as it is set some years after it. The style is a bit different here again since this story takes place and is quite moderately based off Conan Doyle's_ The Adventures of the Empty House. _That's one of his shorter cases and not so much a case at all as more a reunion between Holmes and Watson.

Essentially, the verse in which _Are You Happy?_ and now _Reunion in an Empty Flat_ are based on is a TRIPLE AU: Alfred is a Doctor, who helps his friend Arthur solve crimes. Alfred writes the stories Doctor Watson should be writing. And all of this is based on several other Holmes AUs and the original stories.

Comments would be loved. Hearing from people is always nice.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Hetalia. I don't own Sherlock Holmes either. ^^

**Reunion in an Empty Flat**

It was the spring of the year 1894, and all of London, including Doctor Alfred F. Jones, leafed through the morning newspaper with the same peculiar interest only the murder of someone in the same caste as the _Honourable Alistair Blackwell_ could supply.

Alfred scanned the pages, surmised to be so moved by the way in which so many seemed at a loss with the case. And he could only wonder if—perhaps—had Arthur been alive, he would have solved it within a matter of minutes, or if he would have taken it on at all.

The case itself looked promising, alluring, intriguing, in fact, and it was such knowledge that made Alfred's chest constrict with the strings of remembrance. He sighed, slapping the newspaper over his desk. Now was not the time to think of such things.

The mystery surrounding Alistair Blackwell was curious, to say the least. For Alistair, being young and of the less aristocratic elements of money, had amassed a fortune through his Mother and Father—both now recently deceased. He lived with his sister in a well-off home in London and was known to be a man of both moderation and unobtrusive habits. Though he had a love for games and cards, he was known to be cautious with his money, and seldom lost—especially after he'd procured a short-lived partnership with Colonel Adair, expert gambler. So it was that he had neither debt nor enemies, and more friends than family to mourn his murder.

A murder that had happened relatively quickly and in silence: Blackwell lived in a fine neighborhood, often frequented by cabbies, and still no one had heard the shot that had stabbed him through the head. It had been fired almost expertly. The door had been left unforced, but money—a vast quantity spilled in small amounts—was left in wait on the table. No rifle had been left behind, nor had it been heard. Only the window had been but a trifle open—though surely not enough for anyone to climb through, and not a large enough opening for anyone to fire right through.

Alfred leaned back on his chair, fingers splayed in prayer over his chest.

Murder cases tended to make something dip in Alfred's stomach. It was almost as if his body was—by default—reminiscing over the singular touch that Arthur Kirkland's special brand of magic had left imprinted on his life. Because even Alfred could admit that there were memories that haunted him, even in sobriety.

In his imagination, in his own office, he could almost imagine Arthur's long, elegant fingers as they slid over the newspaper—pouty lips tutting as he read over the elements of the case, bright green eyes staring coyly at Alfred: "Surely just piecing what little there is in this can give you some idea as to why I've such little respect for Scotland Yard? How long do you think it'll be before Bonnefoy comes knocking on our door?" And still Alfred knew it was not true. The voice was only in his head, ringing through his ears. Echoes of his past now catching up to him, all in the shape of Arthur's lithe, tall frame.

Yes, it was the similar pang his fingers seemed to express whenever he picked up a pen and wrote Sherlock Holmes instead of a patient's prescription—not that it happened often.

However, if Alfred had once missed both Liberty and Arthur—the former more questionable than the latter—then he was positive that he had finally managed to secure in his consciousness enough peace of mind to dig him through some of his worst melancholies.

Part of his plans typically included indulging in long work breaks, sometimes by Kensington Park, or somewhere further if he could manage it with his busy practice. Breaks he made use of often, like today. Though even he couldn't deny that he was itching to make a short round near the Blackwell's home, a mere block from Kensington Gardens.

And it was with such in mind and coat in hand that he was interrupted by his maid, Elizabeta, who proceeded to tell him that he had a visitor at the door.

To his astonishment, it was his friend—the old book collector.

A sharp gaze met his, peering carefully from the frame of a wizened face and tufts of white hair. He carried in his arm perhaps a dozen books, all leering at Alfred in the beauty of their casing.

"You're surprised to see me, sir."

"Quite," he replied, though turned on his heel, bringing the old man inside. "Though not unhappy to see you, my good man. Pray, come in. I could use a distraction."

The old man hobbled behind him, voice breaking and croaking much like a frog's as he took long steps, almost leaping into Alfred's sitting room. Alfred offered the man a seat. "May I offer you some tea, or coffee, perhaps? It'll be but a minute. You can tell me as we wait what has brought you to visit me, old friend. Make yourself comfortable."

The old man nodded, sitting patiently.

Alfred had met the book vicar exactly one day a year ago, shortly after Liberty's unfortunate death. They'd met on a train, and he'd been surprised by the fact that the old man was moving close to his practice, right by Church Street—at the corner shop. A mere block from Alfred's own home and study, really. After a long chat on the train, he'd made it his personal mission to help the old man set-up his bookshop, and along the way had found in him a certainly refreshing roguish amicability that reminded him much of Arthur.

Almost immediately, he'd wrapped himself around those feelings, reeling in the familiarity of wit and sarcasm and company.

Soon after, they'd become friends. Alfred had never been much of a book collector, but being left with Liberty's precious tomes had turned him into one. He was an excellent customer. Though even he could admit that many times he felt he was buying a friend, maybe even a psychologist, not a book, and his neighbor seemed to know it as well, now making home visits.

"Well, you might not be wont to believe it, but I've a conscience, sir."

"Al," Alfred interrupted, sitting down after having informed his maid to bring tea. "You make too much trifle. Tell me: is something as of late bothering you?"

"Yes. When I last saw you in my store, I might have been a bit gruff in my manner, you see, for I'd been in a most uncomfortable of situations. This morning I was looking through my books and I said to myself: I have to make amends. I am much obliged to you for always picking my books. You are a good customer."

"I'd forgotten your gruff demeanor as soon as I'd stepped out," Alfred confessed, trying to put his guest at ease. He smiled softly, blue eyes shining silently. "We all have rough days. I have had my fair share more than you in that shop. And you have been more than understanding. There need not be any such worries between friends."

"Still, to make my amends, I brought with me a copy of BRITISH BIRDS, THE HOLY WAR, CATULLUS_, _and many more—a true bargain, all of them, so do not bother yourself with offering payment. I said to myself: with five volumes he could just fill the unsightly gap on that second shelf. An untidy reminder of a bachelor's life, wouldn't you say?"

There was a jolt that crossed over Alfred's face before he promptly moved his head to the cabinet behind him, blinking in surprise that he'd never noticed the gap before. He zeroed in on the shelf.

"You would agree it's rather unsightly, Al?"

That voice.

Slowly, Alfred turned his head again, surprised to find Arthur Kirkland now leaning provocatively on his divan—smiling at him across the coffee table. Already, he was pulling from his pocket a cigarette, staring back at Alfred with mirth in his green eyes. The remainders of glue stuck to his cheeks. He picked at them leisurely.

Alfred rose to his feet, barely staring for a few seconds in utter amazement, almost fearing that he was imagining things again. And still, he reached for his pocket, trying to see if he carried a light with him.

"A—Arthur," Alfred heaved in his nervousness, taking off his glasses for a moment. He staggered to take a few steps. "Arthur, it's you. It is, isn't it? But it can't be."

Arthur's thick brows furrowed in concern as he rolled to sit back up and reach for his friend's hand, "Alfred, now easy love, easy—Alfred!"

The cigarette fell from his lips to the ground as he moved to slide across the carpet with outstretched arms.

A heavy figure fell right into them, hitting his chest with a loud thud.

.

Alfred F. Jones would later admit that it was the first time he'd ever fainted. He'd even say as much in print. Well, he'd accept he'd fainted _as Watson_.

Though he would never admit – much less mention for his personal safety and that of his Detective— that promptly after his fainting spell, he'd felt Arthur slip some brandy into his mouth with, well, his tongue. Though he was sure Arthur was well aware that he had pretended longer than it was necessary to remain asleep—if only because he needed to compose himself.

.

A gray mist swirled before his eyes. Alfred coughed, taking in the smell of menthol and smoke. Slowly it cleared, leaving him looking confused with his collar-ends undone and the burning taste of brandy pinching at his tongue. Arthur's cool hands ran down Alfred's cheek—the rest of his body was bent over Alfred's chair, a cigarette and flask in his other hand.

"My dearest Alfred," he whispered, watching as Alfred's pupils dilated with recognition. There was a flicker of warmth in Arthur's voice, a reminder to Alfred of their friendship. "I owe you a thousand apologies."

Alfred simply blinked, trying to bring Arthur into focus.

Arthur offered him the open flask again, eyes scanning him carefully. "I'd never imagined you'd be so affected."

"You didn't think I'd be so affected?" Alfred groaned his reply, letting his cheek hit Arthur's chest. He smiled, feeling safe in the juncture of Arthur's collarbone, sliding closer to the beating of his heart. With one hand, he pushed the flask away, trying to settle into the comfort of Arthur's familiar smell—smoke, tobacco, maybe soil, and earth, and everything that was wood and natural and beautiful. There was also a hint of rubber and glue, but he chose to ignore that. Instead, he closed his eyes. Maybe pretending it was a dream would make it last longer. "I married. You need to get over that. It's not like I tried to murder you."

He paused, assimilating to the warmth enveloping him. "Of course I was affected, Kirkland."

"Yes, well," Arthur tensed and bristled, fingers barely patting Alfred's head. "It's hard to overcome that miniscule detail, which entails you bedding someone else."

"I'm not bedding anyone else. I'm a widow now, remember?" he purred, trying to lean in closer to Arthur's hand. "I'm as loyal as ever."

"Ha, you're bloody amusing," Arthur scoffed, thumb running over the edge of Alfred's cheekbone. "Now why don't you open your eyes and look at me."

"Because if I do, you might disappear like you did in my study."

"But Alfred, my dear, I'm touching you," Arthur tutted, coiling Alfred's hair until he felt that with a single pull, he could get a full view of his friend's face. The hairs felt soft to the touch. And Alfred let out a single breathe so erratic that Arthur expected more than felt the dip of his stomach as it plunged to his loins. "I'm touching you, love. An apparition cannot touch you. It is but rational logic that dictates my touch alone should tell you I am real."

"Oh?" Alfred opened one eye, peeking at Arthur's red lips, "Yes, well, it's been three years and I've learned that the senses lie in a most formidable manner, which sometimes included you haunting my evenings with far more than simple touches."

Arthur simply drew away, taking a long drag from his cigarette. "I see you have yet to learn how to properly make use of spoken language. I'd say the same for the entirety of the English idiom; however, I was deeply touched by your rendition of my death, which I was happy to see you published not a minute too soon."

Alfred sat up, trying to fix his cravat. He grinned, "You always did have such complains. Though if I am inexperienced with my mouth, you are well-aware I am not so with my hands."

"Yes, well, writing requires less practice. It can be a honed art that of touch," Arthur sat across from Alfred, taking his place on the divan again. Before setting the flask down, he took a long swig of it, letting a few drops pool together near the corner of his lip. "It can be set apart. All need talk, not all need write. Now, I am sure you have several questions for me?"

"I do."

"I confess I am concerned over your current state of mind, and whether my shocking surprise has left you in any position to delve into the matter at the moment, but I assume you'll request I leave that to you—being the expert, Doctor."

"Now this seems more like the Arthur Kirkland I have always known," Alfred breathed out, easing his tense muscles and shoulders back onto the back of the armchair. "I was concerned."

Arthur nodded, "yes, well, forgive me for having missed you. I fear my emotions won me over. It shall not happen again. I forgot you tend to prefer me emotionless and cold and un-directed, more like your portrayal of me in your Holmes stories. I did always wonder why it was that you – pardon me, Watson – enjoyed being treated so poorly."

"It's not that I enjoy it. But if I already feel this much for you with what we have, I don't know if I could have handled losing you had you always looked at me with such fondness."

There was an unceremonious gasp that left Arthur's lips. He proceeded to frown. His thick eyebrows kissed as he took a long suck from his fag. Alfred watched as the nervous tick typical of Arthur's nervous habits returned to his foot. "I have always looked upon you with such fondness. You have just never been one for much careful observation, Alfred. You see, but do not observe. That is_ no_ fault of mine. I taught you all I could."

"And then some." Alfred puffed his cheeks, looking away slightly peeved. "Maybe I chose to not see it. Or maybe something changed after my marriage in your demeanor towards me. It was colder. Meaner."

"Something always changes when one marries, Alfred. Such are the rules of conjugal living; you could not have us both. And you made it more than clear you had wanted naught but friendship from me—you did not want me. You wanted freedom."

"And you had to pretend to die to teach me a lesson?" he replied, curving a haughty eyebrow. Gently, he retrieved his glasses from his face, wiping at them with his untucked shirt. For the first time, he noted his shirt had been pulled from his pants. "It was cruel of you."

"Nonsense," Arthur lolled the flask of brandy close to his ear. "So selfish you are. _That_ has obviously not changed."

"Well, you once told me everything was about me," Alfred sighed, "Forgive me for assuming that still stood. Had I known, maybe I shouldn't have mourned you for three years."

"That ended the moment you broke our vow. Though I confess I've always been weak with you," Arthur's eyes continued to wander around the room, settling on the carpet. He kicked it with his foot.

"Then this was not about me?"

"_This _visit? No. All me; selfish bastard I am. Oh don't look so forlorn. It was what you were thinking, wasn't it? – Our carpet; my brother gave it to you?"

"He said I'd make better use of it, having such attachment, memories, all of that." Alfred looked back at the cabinet, eyes zeroing in on the gap Arthur had pointed to earlier. "Then if not _this_ then something else was about me?"

Arthur smirked, eyes flickering with a twinge of yellow in evergreen. "I'd always known the tosser wasn't _too_ slow. I'm surprised no one has ever commented on the stain?"

"What makes you assume they hadn't?" Alfred coughed into his side.

"My dear Alfred, you are a sort that is most Victorian in nature, most wanton to fit in the confines of your lot. Had someone mentioned in, even looked at it, you would have removed it." Arthur stood, stretching. He touched the small of his back as he turned away from Alfred. "Do you mind if I serve myself a drink? My flask is empty now. Seems your appetite for strong drink has increased since my absence—or Liberty's absence?"

"Go ahead. All that is mine is yours and all that is yours is mine. Isn't that how the vow goes?" Alfred stood in a hurry, pacing the room until he was able to let his hands fall over the curve of Arthur's shoulders. He eased them down to his arms, digging his fingers into the plush, poorly constructed suit of the _old man_, whose clothes Arthur was still wearing, but whose face now lay by the books on the table. "Promise me you're not leaving."

"I assure you I've no intention of leaving again."

"And this was about me?" Alfred growled, letting his lips touch porcelain skin, "Admit it."

"Isn't everything about you? Or so it is in your mind. I hardly doubt what I have to say will change your opinion," he popped open the flask of brandy, slipping the liquids with precision from one container to the other. A kiss was pressed to his jaw, and he breathed out with less control than he had intended. "I won't deny it was to keep you safe; you and several others. But the last year pretending to be a man half my stature, well, that was for me. I had wanted to see you. Now, perhaps you should close the door before your maid walks in and reports you."

"She's a fine Hungarian lady; she's aware of my past. I had to confide in someone and she was willing, but if it will ease your mind," Alfred stepped away, hurrying over to lock the door. With an energetic bounce, he returned to his seat. Blue eyes shining, he licked his lips trying to remain composed. "Then you've come to stay? For me?"

"Hardly. Come to stay, yes. For you? Partly; to be truthful, I returned for Alistair Blackwell. Oh don't be jealous. Already you're creating a fantasy in your head. Now, onto the better question: stay with you? No." Arthur, too, sat down, debating whether to light another cigarette. "That was the true intent of your question, wasn't it? Yes, I know."

"I just, I assumed…"

Arthur nodded, "yes, you always assume much. Now, care to try this reunion again, love? Compose yourself and open the door. I think we are both finally in our full faculties. Besides, I'd love to meet this Hungarian of yours."

.

Alfred would later write a scene between Holmes and Watson that was more akin to old friends that had been estranged for years, rather than meeting after death. He was not able to properly convey in words anything but desire and lust and everything that came with fear of loss and the consummation of tormented agony. It was through Watson that Alfred could hide the sin of his reaction—the way in which his hand had gripped Arthur's arm, pulling him from his seat into a long kiss that had left the Detective in a frenzy of limbs and grabs.

And it had ended on the carpet.

And, an invitation to dinner with Arthur.

"Will you dine with me tonight at the Diogenes club? I am in need of your company for one more case, Alfred. Perhaps the last; this Alistair Blackwell business…"

"I will go with you wherever and whenever. At once if you demand it."

"Surely I would not—you're not even wearing pants. I just demand a short dinner. Hand me my trousers? I need a smoke," Arthur shrugged Alfred's touch away. He had felt the way in which Alfred's fingers had splayed over the bony contours of his backbone. A shame had instantly washed over him, almost at the same time as Alfred had circled his waist with his arms, peppering kisses at his hip. "My brother will be there. You know he's a regular _Mycroft_ in the arse—that is the name you gave him? So do dress appropriately."

"I'll wear my best suit."

"And pray do _not_ try to get into his good graces. I need you as my ally, not his arse-kisser. Alfred, Alfred, you're not even listening to me… oh, damnation, we stained the carpet again."

"No one will notice it," Alfred murmured against Arthur's skin, the frame of his glasses digging into Arthur's rib, "No one noticed the bigger one. It's only me here." He smiled, "and you."

"Yes," Arthur blushed, "but _I _will notice it."

"Yes," Alfred chuckled, "but you notice everything."

.

When they were better composed, they opened the door once again.

Alfred's response was to grip the other by the arms with such strength that Arthur dropped the books he was carrying, and the mask. "Arthur! Arthur, is it… is it you? Can it be that you are alive? It's… but it's not possible that you could have climbed out of that abyss, is it? Oh Arthur! I thought I'd lost you—"

Arthur rolled his eyes, not surprised that Alfred's acting was still not to par with his. The maid stared at them from above the stairs, trying to hide her coy little smile behind her hands. "Yes, Alfred," Arthur yelled dramatically, trying to keep from laughing. "It is _I, _Arthur Kirkland, returned from the—oh bloody hell. I can't."

Alfred blinked, growing tense, worried, everything that signaled his fear. "What do you mean you can't? It was fine. It's fine." In hushed whispers, the doctor coughed into his hand, "just say your line; it is fine."

"The things I do for you."

"It is fine."

"Yes, I know it is bloody fine," Arthur yelled, a twitch in his eye. "I mean, I'm concerned. I'm not sure if you are fit to discuss… No, this is not going to work. I'm sorry, love," he sighed, pecking Alfred's lips. Immediately, the maid faltered, dropping her cleaning rag. "A good afternoon to you, Madame. I assume you will not share this with your husband? – He obviously does not approve of your habits. Alfred, I shall see you tonight."

The door was slammed closed. Alfred and his maid exchanged looks, and then Alfred returned to his study, cheeks ablaze.

"Not a word from me, sir!" the maid shouted behind him, trying to return to her duties.

.

Alfred left promptly from his house. He locked the door behind him, and then turned, taking some rushed steps down toward the street, which seemed untypically deserted. But just as he was making his way towards the street corner to hail a cabbie, one stopped right before him.

The door popped open.

"I thought I had asked you to be prompt," Arthur climbed out, leaning on his cane. He wore a crisp dark suit of expensive qualities; the like reminded Alfred of his fine-breeding and aristocratic lineage. Because in-between Arthur's habits of drinking, smoking, and abusing all sorts of substances that would otherwise be unsightly on anyone else, and his inability to practice proper decorum in relationships, Arthur was a practiced violinist, a most-charming of hosts, and exceedingly fashionable in his tastes. It was in such moments that Alfred felt almost flattered by Arthur's interest. "Obviously I wasn't convincing enough this afternoon as to the urgency behind our case." He tapped at his chin, coyly making his way back into the cabbie, "Though at least I was impressionable enough that you did manage to find a suitable suit after all; get on."

Alfred blinked, eyes scanning the figure in front of him as he followed into the darkness of the cabbie.

He sat by Arthur with a fair distance between them, sometimes taking rapid assessments of Arthur's profile—a most well-fashioned testament of his brilliance. Alfred had always known Arthur was handsome, but it seemed age had been good to him. Or perhaps it was the pangs of regret at having been apart from his friend that made Alfred look upon him with soft eyes, for if he was honest with himself, there was a lackluster yellow tinge to Arthur's skin and a sharp edge to his cheekbones that showed fatigue and less-than-perfect circumstances.

His friend had probably suffered through hunger, more than the typical he was used to. He had endured the beatings of warm afternoons when the sun whipped at skin and burned.

"You're studying me," Arthur clicked his cane, sending the cabbie on his way. "I spent much time traveling. My figure must show as much. It's honestly never been anything I could not endure—mostly self-imposed fasting in Tibet, and wanderings through the Middle East. I had always dreamt of owning a part of the world within the confines of my mental encyclopedia. From the monks I have learned even more ways in which to control both my emotions and store my thoughts."

"Oh?" Alfred coughed, taking interest in the conversation. "So your mind is not an attic anymore?"

"An attic is too small," his companion grinned, eyes besmirched with mirth as he stretched his hand to the middle of the gap between them. Alfred followed suit, letting their fingers barely touch. He muttered, "Memories of you alone are an attic."

Alfred peeked from behind the curtains. "This is the wrong way."

"No. It is not. My brother has cancelled on us this evening, I'm afraid. And I suppose that makes things easier for us. You'll see soon enough where we're going. Cabbie, we get off here."

"Cavendish Square?" Alfred asked, jumping off behind Arthur. "Why here?"

.

They walked the rest of the way. Alfred was amazed by the ease with which Arthur managed to lead them through short streets and alleyways, and Alfred assumed that in some sudden bout of sentimentality, Arthur had decided to take them to Baker Street. But when Arthur refused to speak, he followed suit right into Blanford Street, from where they opened the back door of a house and entered together.

It closed behind them. And Alfred began shaking.

The place was dark—enough that it blinded Alfred instantly.

It was the type of abandoned empty building that reminded Alfred of the ghost stories Arthur used to tell him sometimes to scare him into sharing a bed. Once they made it into the building, they turned a sharp left and entered an opened flat. Their eyes barely adjusted to the pitch black all around.

Arthur's nimble fingers closed around Alfred's wrist, pulling him close behind him and down towards a murky fanlight over a door that led into a square room. The corners blended into the shadows, discretely blossoming into themselves to keep away from the faint light coming from the window. A layer of dust blanketed everything, even the windows.

"Do you know where we are, Al?" Arthur whispered, putting a hand on Alfred's shoulders. His lips grazed by Alfred's ear.

Alfred nodded, "S—Surely that is B—Baker Street, Arthur."

Arthur hummed his approval. "Quite. We are in Radford House—a repossessed building that once played home to several flats. This particular one stands opposite our old living quarters."

Alfred turned, lips ghosting over Arthur's by chance. "Why have you brought us here?"

There was moment by which Arthur eased his shoulders, taking a step back. "Do you not see?—It commands a most admirable view of our picturesque little home. If I might trouble you, my dear, draw a bit closer to the window. Do take precaution not to bring attention to yourself. Pray, tell me, what you see in our old rooms."

"I don't see what there should be to see."

"Oh, humor me, love. I'm quite eager to find out if my three years of absence have entirely taken away my power to surprise you."

Slowly, Alfred neared the window, staring across to the flat that had once housed his deepest loves and biggest secrets. As his blue eyes fell upon the sight, though, he gasped. Arthur planted a firm hand over his lips, pulling him back.

"I said not to bring attention to yourself."

Alfred nodded. Once he was released, he made his utmost effort to whisper. "It's just marvelous. A most surprising resemblance—just everything, everything, it's a perfect likeness of your profile."

Arthur beamed with pride. "Quite. There's certainly no mistaking the poise of the shoulders, or the contours of my face, especially my sharp cheek-bones, is there?"

"None!"

"I am glad to hear it," Arthur quivered with amusement, "I was almost afraid it was not convincing. But if you say it is, then, who am I to doubt the result?"

"It's…" Alfred turned once again, eyes fixated on the shadowed contour. It reminded him of the shadow figures his mother had always loved to frame and used to decorate his childhood home. "I had always known you to be a formidable artist, Arthur, but that is a most appropriate self-portrait if ever I saw one. But this has not been there before, has it? I know you always rag on me over my difficulties with observation, but—"

"You flatter me, dear." Alfred instantly recognized the tinge of sweetness that tended to enrich Arthur's voice whenever he was high on pride. "It is but a bust in wax. The artist, hardly me, had three years to perfect it. As for the rest, do not fret. I put it there this morning."

"A true likeness. But why?"

"Because, love, I had the strongest possible reason for wishing certain people to think that I was there when I was really elsewhere." Arthur let his hand fall over Alfred's jaw. "I'd always known the rooms were being watched."

Alfred nodded, looking back to the window. "By whom?"

"By my old enemies, Alfred. That charming society whose leader lies in Reinchenbach Fall. They knew because they saw—they knew I had not fallen, but they also knew I was not in England. But I returned; you mustn't forget your good friend the book collector. Surely he'd be hurt if you did."

"A year. You've been by my side a bloody year…"

Arthur nodded, "My sentiments got the better of me. I admit I was not very keen on telling you it was me until a few days ago when I was sure they'd figured out I was back. I noted that this morning a few men, some old regulars of mine in fact, were following you, which is why I ventured to tell you the truth. All morning I presume the culprit has been watching this bust, assuming it to be me."

Alfred furrowed his brows, confused. "You think they wanted to hurt me?"

"I wasn't going to take my chances."

Little by little, Arthur shared more. His plans took shape before Alfred's eyes—everything from the way in which he'd planted the bust, to the very reason he'd gone to meet with Alfred, and had wanted to keep him occupied for the evening. A part of Alfred felt cheated, but he refrained from mentioning it, far too preoccupied trying to follow Arthur's story.

"T—the shadow!" Alfred then interrupted.

Arthur jumped. "What of it?"

"It has moved!"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Surely it would have moved. I was trying to trick people into believing I was really there, Alfred. People don't sit for hours on end typically leafing through books in the same position, much less me." He moved dismissively. "I had our old landlady help me. She moves it, from the front. Makes for quite a convincing effect, wouldn't you say?"

"Too convincing!" Alfred breathed out, clutching his heart.

"Oh forsaken. For the last time, there are no such things as ghosts."

"And still here you stand!"

"Because I'm not a ghost. Now hush. Someone approaches…"

.

Indeed, someone was approaching. Arthur tensed, ears perked. Alfred watched, leaning to see that the street was deserted still, except, perhaps, for a man now crouching by the front doorway with two companions.

And, in the darkness of the room, Arthur pulled Alfred towards the darkest crook he could find, and stared down at his companion. Alfred could almost feel his suppressed excitement, maybe from the pressure of the hand pressed tightly over his lips, and the quivering of the arms that otherwise remained wrapped around him. Alfred pressed his head to Arthur's body, leaning his body to hide alongside him.

In that moment, it felt like something had snapped between them—perhaps the recognition that they were together again in the thrill of crime and chase, so that when the door opened and shut, they seemed to breathe together.

There was an ease between them, through which Alfred had always been an extension of Arthur. He brought out the butt of his revolver, wrapping his fingers tightly around the trigger.

Together they watched: it was a haggard looking man that entered the room. Coat in arm, and opera hat perched smartly on his head, he grabbed from the room behind a pile of boxes a rather bulky object, with which he then busied himself in some task or other that the darkness veiled with experience. The man crawled close to the window, barely opening it before leaning forward. It wasn't until the sound of the sharp click that Alfred looked down at his gun, beginning to piece together the sounds of a whirling, grinding noise, and a click. A very obvious click.

From his position, Arthur began to see how the man cuddled the butt of his rifle into his shoulder. His finger tightened on the trigger. And then there was a loud swish of a sound that reminded Alfred of air wheezing as it slammed against a cabbie, or a jar popping open.

A part of him died when he heard the sound of glass breaking. And he could not help the gasp that escaped him.

The man flicked his head back, suddenly aware of the sound.

Almost instantly, Arthur jumped on him, hurling him flat on his face. Alfred followed, feeling both sheepish and guilty as he used the butt of his revolver to hit the man on the head. Arthur's green eyes followed his every move, and though Alfred had expected an annoyed glance for his noise, he received, instead, a thankful peck on the lips once they were sure the other man was more than passed out on the floor.

"Oh, wait," Arthur pulled out a whistle, putting it to use as he leaned away from Alfred, and carefully pieced his ensemble together. "Fix your lapels. They should be here soon."

There was the clatter of running feet upon pavement. Then the slamming of wood and the creaking of stairs.

"There's more of them," Alfred pulled out his gun again.

"No."

Two policemen in uniform rushed through the front entrance of the room. Behind them, the familiar sight of Detective Francis Bonnefoy met them.

Arthur grinned, kicking at the hit man's head with the back of his boot. "Bonnefoy, is that you? – I thought I told you to make sure your men would be prompt."

"I took the job myself, Arthur. You should be thankful for that." Francis clutched Arthur's hand. "Good to see you back in London. I was wondering if you were just enjoying Paris too much."

"Nonsense." Slowly, Arthur pulled a letter from his pocket, dangling it in front of Francis' face. "Behave, lest you not wish to see this letter from your _sister_, or whatever you told me that poor woman was of yours."

.

"Then you always knew that Arthur was alive?" Alfred asked outside of the building, staring at Francis with envy clearly marked across his face. "You saw me countless times, and still, never thought to mention a single word."

"He needed to know, whereas you did not," Arthur remarked, watching as the two policemen dragged the passed out hit man away. He pressed a hand on Alfred's shoulder, pulling him back. Already, their attacker was beginning to breathe hard once again, collecting his wits along the way. Arthur nodded towards their old quarters. "I needed his help. Now, shall we?"

Alfred glared at Francis, moving away towards the building on Baker Street—his old home.

"Bring him in," Francis shouted to his officers, "Quick. People begin to wake."

.

"Ah, Colonel!" Arthur fixed the man's rumpled collar. Alfred gulped, watching his friend's eyes aflame with a hunger he didn't recognize. "What is the saying again? Oh, no matter. A pleasure to see you again, though. It's been quite some years, has it not? Reichenbach Fall was three years ago. I had expected you would have finally stopped working for the likes of those two Italians; however, who am I to judge proper employment?"

The Colonel simply stared at Arthur, eyes red and dizzy. He nodded his head from side to side, trying to remain awake.

"My apologies; I have yet to introduce everyone."

Alfred leaned behind Arthur, rifle in his hand, "Who is he, Arthur?"

"This is Colonel Adair, perhaps the best heavy-game shot India has ever produced for the empire, Alfred." Arthur pursed his lips, his smile turning sour. "Sadly, he makes his employment working for a couple of Italian twits; the like should not bother us now that they have been recently apprehended in Paris. Though it is a true shame they could not get a telegram to the fine Colonel here informing him that their reprise had come to – shall we say— a sudden border-halt?"

Francis patted Arthur's back, almost pulling him back. "Very good. And here's all the proof we need—seems like the bullet when right through the bust and hit the wall. And bounced right off, flat. I think we have enough here to charge him with the attempted murder of Arthur Kirkland."

In the background, Alfred played with the strange rifle the man had used, trying to cock it left and right for a better idea as to the makings of its internal mechanisms. "It's German," he whispered to himself, letting his fingers rub over the fine print on the rifle. "A gun that is as silent as air. Heavy, though."

"Yes, well," Arthur keened, taking the gun from Alfred's hand. "Ludwig Beilschmidt was not just a gifted mathematician, Alfred. He was a brilliant engineer and inventor. I daresay I'd known about this rifle, though I never thought I'd get to witness its maneuvering. Here."

Francis caught the rifle with one hand, barely managing to balance that and the flat bullet in his other palm. "What am I to do with this?"

"I'd suggest putting it in a museum after the trial. Machines of its caliber are unlikely to appear for years—well, at least some that _can_ be used by typical amateurs, and need not necessitate the fine precision of an expert such as Colonel Adair. Oh, and Francis?"

"Ah, yes?"

"I'd never thought I'd say this, but I am impressed, frog. You deduced this case quite well. Though you always do somehow manage to disappoint me at the very climax of things—pity, really, every _single_ time."

Francis blinked. "I don't understand. You're the one—"

"Every single time."

Alfred sputtered with cheeks red as he moved to try and break them apart. "Attempted murder, right. Very good. Why don't you go and write a report, Francis."

"Alfred, pray stop pulling at my arm. You're ruining my fun. First off, Francis, you will not assess this man as the attempted murderer of Arthur Kirkland, but as the murderer of Alistair Blackwell. A shame you missed _that_. Besides, attempted murder would be nothing compared to the punishment of murder. I doubt he won't hang."

The two constables holding the man's arms went frigid for a moment. Alfred noted it, feeling himself blanch as well.

"Secondly, congratulations—you have done it. Finally you have solved a case on your own, frog. My best wishes on your promotion. It's been lovely seeing you. Now we shall not have to see each other, I hope, for a long time. If at all."

Francis cocked his head to a side. "I _still _do not understand, rosbif…"

"Surely you wouldn't," Arthur turned, fixing the lapels of Alfred's shirt, "Again, disappointed: each and _every_ time."

"Stop saying that." Alfred pouted, looking over Arthur's shoulder to Francis. "He's telling you that he wants no part in this case, no credit."

"Quite," Arthur agreed, green eyes flashing. "To make it clearer: you now have the culprit. You have the bullet. Figure out how he did it. Otherwise, you may leave now."

"Ah, yes," Francis grinned, winking at them, "yes, yes, I see. Quite. Very well. Gentlemen, take him away." He paused before leaving, "Arthur, my letter."

Arthur handed the letter from over Alfred's protective half-embrace, the result of their hit man trying to spit at Arthur on his way out. He slipped it inside Francis's pocket, patting it for good measure.

"A good evening to you, too, frog," Arthur fixed his suit, brushing down his pants, "Would you mind telling my brother the details of the Colonel's capture? – I _know_ you will see him this evening, and I'm sure he'll be more than happy to know a spy of his caliber has been caught. Maybe he'll even give you a treat, or help you sort out the case."

"Yes, yes, of course," Francis coughed into his shoulder, closing the door promptly behind him, "I will tell him his little brother sends his best. Enjoy your evening."

Alfred turned towards Arthur, shock apparent in his pale features. "Your brother and Detective Francis Bonnefoy?"

"I'm not fond of the idea, but I've finally overcome the feeling of wretched nausea that used to wash over me at the thought." Arthur sighed, moving to reach for the bust in front of the window, "Besides, no matter how poorly you might think of him as a detective, you have to admit he's a more than formidable sculptor."

.

"You must tell me how he did it," Alfred commented later that night, slipping a piece of steak through his lips. "I think I know, but I need you to say it nonetheless. If anything for my peace of mind: I've spent all evening staring at you trying to figure out what's changed, what hasn't, and in this I need reassurance."

Arthur dabbed at his lips, taking a sip of his wine. A thick eyebrow was arched in question as he eased into conversation, "Reassurance of my mental capacity? Or, Blackwell's death?—I do hope you mean the latter."

"Does it matter?"

The waiter passed by, bringing a refreshed basket of bread. Arthur and Alfred both waited until he was gone, taking turns to stare at the man curiously before returning to preen their gazes at each other.

It was difficult now, Alfred felt, just trying to pretend in short moments with Arthur that he was not fully infantilized by the fantasy. Still, his mind teetered between understanding that his friend had returned and the fact that whatever he was feeling in his heart could not justify any poor acting on his part. A shag on the carpet of his home was one thing. Holding hands in public, another.

"I suppose not. Though I will take this time to mention that you have been more than insufferably clingy since this afternoon," Arthur pursed his lips, pushing at his peas with his fork. "I'm not sure I like it."

"You'll have to forgive me for showing my emotions," the doctor sniffed, offended, "though I assure you I have always been like this, even in fiction."

"Ah, yes, I suppose you have, though you'll have to forgive _me_ for trying to protect my hea…" Arthur turned away. Red inked across the expanse of his neck. "The case, yes, it was rather simple. Even you should have caught it. He killed him in the same way in which he intended to kill me, though he was far shrewder in that regard, managing a perfect shot through the small opening of the window of the Blackwell household. He shot from the empty room on the house right across, cocked his rifle, edged it at the rim, and shot. Blackwell must have been counting money. He was within perfect distance. The window was half-way opened at the time based on the speed and strength with which the bullet hit Blackwell's head."

"He used the rifle, then, and that's why no one was able to hear it. The window, though, are you sure? The papers reported that it was a trifle open."

"Ah, yes, the rifle. It's not the gun so much as the use of soft-bullet with the strength of the gun that makes for _such_ a powerful combination. Quite an ingenious maneuver. As for the window, I assume typical sensationalism warranted that much; either that or there is a simpler explanation. Think about it. It's more than certain that when his sister found the body, she closed the window and drew the curtains. Last thing you'd like is for the world to chance upon sight of your dead brother. There were certainly fingerprints on the glass, as if someone had forced it to shut - perhaps the lack of strength and need for force might allude to a woman's touch?"

Alfred scoffed. "But _how_ did you know it was Adair?"

"I didn't at first. Upon my return from France—the reason why you'd not seen your friend the book collector for some time, though I assume you know _that much_ by now—I had managed to deduce from my last meeting with the Vargas brothers that someone had been sent to watch me, if not more. I was not able to intercept a telegram, but I at least knew they'd given my attempted murderer the gun. That gun, being an experimental model, could only be cocked by an expert. So I researched, and found Adair, a recently retired Colonel from India. It was when I followed him from the club one evening that I was made aware of his friendship with Blackwell, and the proximity between his quarters and my own. Instantly, I recognized his face from three years ago, but I needed proof."

Alfred nodded. "And that's when you set everything up?"

"I didn't until he made a mistake first. The Blackwell murder." Arthur dabbed at his fingers, "It was too clean, Alfred. The shot too expertly and smart. And the rest you have witnessed this evening."

"How did he get into the room, though…?"

"Now you are asking to be a prat," Arthur huffed, stuffing some salad into his mouth.

"It's true." Alfred nodded, chewing slower than normal, "what of his motive, though, Arthur? For Blackwell's murder. That's a fair question."

"That I'm ashamed to say is but a guess for you, myself, or anyone else to conjecture." Arthur's eyes flickered from beneath his lashes over Alfred, watching with clear attention as the doctor stopped his usually hurried eating to reach for another roll across the table. He paused, the sound of his silverware clinking together. Slowly, he looked up, red lips curving into a smile. "No, don't tell me," he leaned back against his chair. "Could it be?"

"Finish your food; you're awful thin."

"I think it is—don't tell me…"

Alfred's eyes twinkled. "Then I won't tell you, though I think it is, too. Eat."

"No, do tell me. I don't think I know," Arthur jumped, practically throwing his hand over Alfred's, "I'll be more than impressed."

"I do love impressing you," Alfred whispered, taking a short bite of his salad.

"Yes, we both know you do being the selfish, egoistic bastard you tend to be." Arthur chuckled, "However, this once, my attention is on you, Al."

"As it should be," Alfred nodded, leaning to the middle of the table in a conspiring manner, "as it always should be."

"Ah, yes. We're back to that again," Arthur sighed. He scanned the room, leaning forward as well, "you're insufferable when jealous."

"And you're _not_?—God's sake, the frog _knew_."

"If you're not going to tell me, then I'll have to call for the check and make my leave. I've much unpacking to do at 221B. You saw the state of my living quarters. I've much mess to make to return it to its better days."

Alfred shook his head, "It has had better days, hasn't it?"

"Quite."

Alfred watched silently as Arthur began to flip his wrist, leaning into his other palm as his gaze grew lost in the evening.

"Are you bored?"

"What makes you ask that?"

Green eyes replied more than Arthur's mouth by snapping back and focusing attention only on the asker.

"You're flicking your wrist. And I can feel your foot tapping under the table."

"No. I'm not bored." Arthur curled his bottom lip inwardly, already chewing on the inside of his cheek. Shortly after, he confessed, first with his eyes, then with his lips. There was a short dip in his stomach. And then the words dropped: "I'm nervous."

"What for?"

"You've yet to tell me the motive and I'm impatient," he tried to offer an explanation dismissively. But the boredom stretched across his face was forced, and missed on Alfred. "Always have been."

"That's a lie; what's got you nervous, Kirkland?" Alfred frowned, rolling his eyes. He reached for the pitcher of water. "Talk."

"That, that bothers me." Arthur blinked. He wasn't sure why he'd immediately taken the order to heart. Rolling his eyes, he leaned both elbows on the table. "I—I've a question I feel I need not ask, and still I feel I must. But I do not want to now. Not here. And still you've been aware of this all evening since we reached the club, and you continue to order more food and eat at an insufferably slow pace."

Alfred shrugged, chuckling, "If you know you need not ask, then why frenzy yourself like this?"

"Because it's what I do. And you bloody well know it. I'm an anxious one, always have been, always will be. And the only thing that tends to calm me down is a smoke, but you're eating, and I'm aware of your typical nuisances which includes you making that horrid face of annoyance over my smoking habit."

"I don't mind you smoking, Arthur," Alfred pushed a glass of water towards his companion. "Just smoking at the dinner table. Now eat."

"That too! That!"

Alfred sat up. "Calm yourself, Arthur. Breathe. We will leave if it is what you want."

"I should not want you," he almost whimpered, making sure his voice was only loud enough for Alfred to hear. Around them, everyone seemed too busy with their own conversations—laughter and light and everything that Arthur couldn't feel. "I shouldn't. You, you spend all your day bothering me about insignificant things like eating, or breathing. Sometimes about sleeping, too. And still I do want you. Else why return? Everything was easier before this afternoon. I had decided that it would be different. We are not the same people, though, but I still feel the same."

"And you assume I don't?"

"It is easier for you. This for you works: Arthur is back. But what does that mean for me? Are you only mine until you find another Liberty?"

"I think we should leave. This isn't a conversation we should be having here," Alfred coughed into his hand, snapping his fingers rather rudely for the waiter.

"I _want_ to have it here. You ordered me to talk."

"I didn't order you to do anything. I asked you why you'd suddenly grown so somber. A moment ago you'd been so jubilant, but a second later you said you wanted to go. Now you want to stay?"

"Do _you_ want to go?" Arthur snapped, looking away almost instantly. In his rush, he managed to elbow a wine glass, staining the white linen red.

"You're in a mood." Alfred nodded. "I do want to go. I just don't think—"

"I almost want to be like that caricature you paint of me in your books. I truly do—it'd be much easier, being a walking automaton with a heart that beats on command. It is what you would want of me, isn't it?"

Alfred watched silently, dropping his fork. "Arthur."

"Isn't it?"

"It'd be easier to live with a wall, than with a bomb, yes. But I do not mean to change you, ever. Do you understand? Now I honestly think this isn't a conversation to be had in public."

"If you want to leave," Arthur hissed, "then ask for the check."

"It's what I just did."

"Do _it _again, then."

"I _am_."

"_Now_."

"Fine, just stop flicking your wrist, and kicking me under the table, and…" Alfred huffed. "Yes, fine, go hail a cab. I'll be out in a moment."

Arthur sniffed, gulping as he reached into his pocket to bring out a pack of money. He threw it at the table. Then moved to leave; along the way, he stood behind Alfred, who returned the roll over his shoulder.

"Just take it, Arthur."

"I said it'd be my treat."

"Yes, well, you've already treated me to enough today."

"You always feel that way, don't you?—You think I always treat you badly. I can tell. You're tired of me already, and it's been a day."

There was a certain melancholy to his voice that stabbed at Alfred's heart.

"I think you're disturbed sometimes, yes. But that does not change that I care for you. Deeply. As for the rest, yes, I'm tired, but it has little to do with you, and more with everything else."

"Disturbed?" Arthur pressed his hand against his lips, "That's what you think of me. Yes. I can see it."

There were no further words exchanged.

Alfred buried his face in his palms and sprinkled some warm breaths over the skin of his palms to relax. After several minutes, though, he threw the roll of cash on the table, well-aware that it was more money than both owed, and immediately after walked out.

No one seemed to have noticed.

**.**

"Well, I suppose this is it," Arthur clutched Alfred's hand, seeming to have returned more to his serious self. Still, a few tears inched near his eyes. Alfred almost yearned to thumb them away. "I presume you'll go home after this?"

"Ah, yes, just as soon as I get you in the cabbie," he opened the door to the cabbie for Arthur, giving him a short kiss on the forehead, "Perhaps we should discuss this, though, in earnest. Maybe in a few days. I think today's been plenty emotional for us both."

A shadow descended over Arthur. "Yes, I—I do apologize over that. I don't, you know I don't feel half as strongly as I do when I have my moods. If I have hurt you—oh won't you just listen to me, every time. I do this often, don't I? But you know I'd never want to hurt you. Never purposely."

"I know," Alfred repeated, "I know. And you know it is the same with me."

Arthur acquiesced silently, pressing Alfred's hand with his gloved one. "Yes. I know. Good night, Alfred. Have a safe trip home."

"Yes, same."

Alfred watched for a few seconds as Arthur hoisted himself into the cabbie. He then closed the door, signaling the cabbie some directions.

.

Arthur picked at the skin of his lip, waiting for the cabbie to take him home. He clicked his cane on the floor.

"What's the hold-up, sir?" he asked, nervous. There seemed to be steps nearing the cab from the side, and almost out of instinct he took hold of his cane. His knuckles turned white from the force.

"Waitin'" the cab driver replied, along with the sound of horses neighing in the echo of the evening.

"Waiting? For what?" Arthur asked himself. Then, the door on the other side opened, sending his heart thrumming into his throat. And Arthur jumped, pressing his back against the plush seat. His eyes flickered over the blonde shoving him aside. "A—Alfred? W—what, I don't. I don't understand."

Alfred slapped at the rooftop. "We're ready now. We are ready, yes?"

There was a part of Arthur eager to shout a yes: eager to take Alfred into his arms, to press him plush against him, and still he couldn't help but notice the way in which the cab driver now seemed to turn half-way towards them, perfect view of their position. There was Arthur Kirkland, detective extraordinaire, made silent by an ex-army doctor. And there was said army doctor, trying to press a hand to his forehead.

"Where to?" the cab driver's rough voice alerted Arthur to Alfred's presence again. "I need t' get a move on, gentlemen."

"Was there not another cab? You should have just mentioned you'd wanted to share," Arthur began, feeling his lips loose and his eyes begin to tear up again. "Alfred, I wouldn't have minded, but this."

"Can you make it a long ride for an extra shilling?" Alfred yelled, eyes still set on Arthur. "We're in no hurry, but eventually, we'd like to get to 221B Baker Street."

Arthur blinked, tugging at Alfred's arm. There were words in their eyes, words neither of them could read.

"A—And then a stop by Church Street," Arthur added, perhaps for the first time voicing less a question, and more a proposition.

"No," Alfred shook his head, eyes glinting from behind his glasses. And Arthur became aware that they were not both in tears. Perhaps they always had been. "No. Just 221B."

"Make up yer bloody minds."

Arthur licked his lips, gripping for Alfred's arms to pull him closer. "Yes! Just, just make it 221B Baker Street. But don't take the long way. In fact, I'll…"

Alfred shook his head, giving him a silent warning.

"I'll give you two extra shillings if you hurry."

**The End**


End file.
